I use Tinder and I’m duly ashamed of myself. My hypothesis is that there are only losers on Tinder. And me. I mean, including me. I’ve been conducting a practical research of the app for several months and hence I am now able to provide empirical evidence to support my hypothesis concerning losers. Besides proof of losers, I have hilarious stories which must be shared for the sake of general entertainment.
So, I met several guys after chatting with them for a bit—not simultaneously, successively over a period of some time—each of them once, and even once was too much. Based on my social experiment, my conclusion is that when a guy of my age is single, there exist painfully profound reasons for his singleness, including, but not limited to, him being a complete idiot. Following my findings, suggested measures to take include me getting another cat and embracing being a crazy cat lady.
Weirdo Type One: The Three-Year-Old
Weirdo of type one is a real-life version of Sheldon Cooper (Big Bang Theory), but significantly less cute and funny than Shelley. The version that I met held a doctorate in physics (like Sheldon) and devoted his spare time to gaming, reading children’s fantasy and playing with lego (he proudly showed me a picture of a lego truck he built). He insisted that the bill in the coffee shop be split between us. There must have been some kind of misunderstanding—I’m not looking to adopt a grown-up child. Also, when a guy asks you out and then expects you to pay for your coffee, does that mean that he’s a confused feminist or what?
Weirdo Type Two: The Mommy’s Pet
Weirdo of type two is a natural aberration in whose existence I didn’t believe until I encountered a living sample. Describing the peculiarities of this phenomenon would be too time-consuming and would border on supernatural fiction, therefore I’ll limit myself to two statements I heard from the particular person I met. My personal favourite is his psychiatric evaluation that my depression springs solely from me having crooked teeth. (He messaged me this and I had the best laugh in years.) I certainly have both depression and crooked teeth but I doubt that there’s a causal connection. To improve on his statement, he followed up saying that unlike mine, his looks are perfect. Besides him being a perfect idiot, he also lived with his mom, full service and all.
Weirdo Type Three: The Psychiatric Patient
Weirdo of type three is a chameleon. He looks normal to start with, but you mustn’t spend more than five minutes in his company. He brought me flowers for the first (and last) date, which I thought quite awesome, and paid for all, which I deeply appreciated. It however soon transpired, no kidding, that we’ve been to the same mental hospital. He insisted he had an acute overreaction to stress and was entirely cured, but I didn’t think so. He spent the whole time talking about his achievements in his job, juxtaposed with his deep insecurities concerning his looks (he looked normal), his last name (which was mildly awkward, but nothing too bad) and other things which I forgot. I should’ve taken a book for this date, it was considerably boring to listen to an uninterrupted stream of consciousness for two hours.
Or Is It Me?
I swear I neither invented nor exaggerated any of the above. Also, the idea wasn’t to ridicule anyone (except myself), but to contemplate how weird life and people are. On the dating note, I also discovered a curious thing: it looks like half of the guys won’t approach me because they believe I already have someone, and the other half won’t approach me because they’re intimidated by me. How weird, right.